


Lullaby

by eepshyes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eepshyes/pseuds/eepshyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary sings baby Watson a lullaby in the nursery. Sherlock watches, deducing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

Mary Watson was exhausted. That was evident by the bags under her eyes. Any git could see that. But the baby wouldn’t stop crying. She had tried to let her cry, just let her lie in the crib and scream her little heart out, but the gentle pad of Mary’s feet on the hardwood floor upstairs hinted at a heart that couldn’t bear to hear the child scream. 

Gentle hands rested on the edge of the worn, wooden crib. Suggestive of nostalgia, or a second-hand store. But no, John wouldn’t have a used crib. He was so fond of spoiling that baby. Had to be a family item. Fleetingly, I wondered if it had held an infant John, and that made me smile. I imagined John silently lying in the crib, looking around his dark nursery, taking it all in. Surely, quite observant. Probably with a little brow furrow. He could have been no other way. 

Her hands shook as she situated them under the screaming baby’s arms and head to lift her out of the crib. Shaking hands: nervousness, hunger, low blood sugar, fatigue, anger, sadness, fear. For a new mom, any and all of the above probably applied. Unsteady breath passed her lips, hinting at nervousness. Mary Watson didn’t think herself capable of being a good mother. She was nervous. She wanted to pass the baby off to someone else. Someone who could do a better job than her. With her past, that was a justified notion. I didn’t have much data on government-trained assassins and motherhood (note to self: research this), but I could imagine the former didn’t have a positive impact on the latter. 

But as she lifted the baby to her chest and settled herself in the rocking chair (probably another family heirloom, judging by the discoloration where one’s elbows would be set and the creakiness when it moved), I could see something else there. Something in the gentle, raised set of her eyebrows, the tone in her eyes, alluding to a more profound feeling, one that could only be described as motherly love. I watched her gently kiss her infant’s head, lingering momentarily, no doubt to feel the soft skin on her lips, to feel the life she created breathe and pulse and squirm beneath her.

She withdrew her lips from her baby’s head and took in a deep breath; an attempt to relax. She stroked the baby’s neck methodically and began to rock as the child wailed. Her eyes fluttered shut. Exhaustion, frustration. She began to sing a lullaby with a breathless voice. Uncertainty. She’d never sang to her baby before. Ready to try anything. Her fingers tapped the melody on the baby’s back, as if she was playing the piano. Musician? That was something I hadn’t before noticed about her. There were a lot of things I never before noticed about her.

The baby’s screaming quieted to a dull whimper. I could see her bottom lip forming a pout, and this is what I imagined other people found to be “cute.” Mary stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the pink curtains back. Moonlight flooded the room and cast a shadow on the adjacent wall. A telling silhouette of mother and child. This is what I imagined other people found “beautiful.” 

After a few minutes had passed, the baby quieted. I watched her eyes drift into sleep, her pout form into a relaxed “o”, and her angry, balled up fists, unclench. The tension left Mary’s shoulders. She inhaled deeply, then blew it out quickly. 

“You’ll be the death of me, little girl.” She whispered, a small smile forming on her lips as she lowered herself into the rocking chair again. “The death of me.” Her eyes closed.

Maybe I could learn to like Mary.


End file.
